


Something Worth Remembering

by KNSkns



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KNSkns/pseuds/KNSkns
Summary: There are things to keep and things to let go.
Relationships: Michael Burnham/Ash Tyler | Voq
Comments: 10
Kudos: 18





	Something Worth Remembering

Something Worth Remembering  
By KNS

Disclaimer: All these years later, and still nothing here is mine.

Notes: This is set during Michael's Missing Year, because wow, is that a lot of time.

I.

Michael had been living this new life for exactly three weeks, two days, and eleven hours when her patience snapped.

This planet she was on – she was pretty sure it wasn’t meant for humans. It was hot as an oven, and not just during the day: it barely even cooled down at night. There were almost no colors: everything was red, from the distant sun to the gritty sand that got everywhere. The air was so dry, she could practically hear the moisture being sucked out of her skin. She hadn’t found a single thing to make her think humans were welcome here.

If the environment hadn't made that clear, the inhabitants certainly had. Vulcans. She'd known a few Vulcans before she'd been in this new life; it was starting to feel as if those were the only race of people she knew anymore. It was just her and Amanda on this red rock of Vulcan, and wow did they stand out. Her classmates at the learning center had made it perfectly clear, with their unblinking stares and backhanded compliments, that they didn’t approve of her presence, would really prefer it if she would go somewhere else.

“Be patient with them,” Amanda had encouraged more than once. “You're the first human they've ever had in class before.”

“Because I've had lots of Vulcans in my classes,” Michael had returned, rolling her eyes. “I know they're gossiping about me. Just because I don't know their language doesn't mean I'm stupid.”

Amanda had smiled. “No, you're certainly not. They're curious about you. In time, you'll make friends.”

Today had not been that day.

There had been a pair of Vulcans, her own classmates, and there had been one too many insults, one word too many about her mother – and then there had been an exchange, an event, and eventually a call to Sarek because she'd been suspended. And none of it had been fair.

She stood before her Vulcan guardian now, not at all sorry about what she'd done, only a little intimidated by the expressionless eyes regarding her stoically. 

“I am disappointed,” Sarek told her calmly, somehow still conveying his displeasure. “While I understand that the circumstances which brought you here were unfortunate, and your presence here perhaps less than ideal, you must nevertheless accept what has come to pass. You must adapt.”

Michael glared up at him. “I don't want to adapt,” she flung back, all anger and grief and sincerity. “I want to go home.”

II.

This is a beautiful place. Sanctuary. What an apt name. Somewhere safe, perhaps the last safe place for a very large area. Perhaps even in the galaxy.

No, no, that can't be true. Her stubborn heart won't accept that all of the Federation is gone, all of it torn asunder and drowned in the chaos of nothing.

A soft wind brushes across her face, brings with it the scent of water and something faintly sweet. Jasmine, maybe, if such a plant lives here.

(She remembers the scents of Amanda's garden floating up to her open windows: roses, honeysuckle, lilacs. Night-blooming Jasmine. . .)

Book's eyes are studying her, looking for something she isn't even certain she wants him to find. "What did you leave behind?"

(The weight of Ash's gaze on her, always trusting, always kind. Oh the way his eyes had looked when he said he wasn't coming...)

The answers to Book's questions, such as they are, tumble out of her mouth like stones down a cliff, heavy but true. In the water before them, the creatures breach and fall, rejoicing in their freedom and life.

A voice suspiciously like Georgio's comes whispering on the next breeze, less sweet but no less real. _Was it worth it?_

Michael thinks of Sarek and Amanda with her in her quarters, come to support her despite Control's threat. She thinks of her brother's eyes when he told her he was afraid. She thinks of the strength in Ash's arms as he held her that last, last, final time.

 _Well?_ the captain/emperor insists. _Was it?_

III.

Book hasn't spoken to her in hours, has rather thoroughly ignored her altogether since they made it off Fortna II, the Exiles' Children safely tucked into the cargo hold.

Michael gives him another hour to work through his anger. She showers off the green-gray mud, changes into clothes unstained by grime and grease. After verifying the younglings remain soundly asleep, she makes her way to the bridge.

Book doesn't even glance at her. Grudge does, blinks her luminous eyes slowly in greeting.

Michael takes up her customary place at the helm, the place that somehow has become hers by default over the past few weeks. "You're still angry, I see," she observes.

Book scoffs. "I'm pissed as hell, actually," he snaps, not looking up from whatever he's doing.

"You know it was the right choice,” Michael says, not for the first time. She doesn't try to keep the amusement from her voice.

"The right --" Book starts to repeat, stops, mutters something the translator can't parse.

Ash would do the same thing, sometimes, when he was angry. Granted, seldom for something she'd done, but for the behaviors of others. She'd learned more than a few Klingon words from his curses. It makes her smile a little, seeing similar actions from Book.

"And you think it's funny, just one big joke," Book challenges, seeing her smile. "You almost got us killed back there."

"No, I didn't," Michael returns easily. "We were far too distant from them to ever be caught."

"You don't know that!" He glares at her. "This wasn't the deal, you deciding to save the galaxy whenever you feel like it. No one can do that and survive."

That claim makes her laugh, just a little.

IV.

One of Michael's utmost favored past times has always been observing the lives of others. How others exist-- the everyday events of ordinary creatures-- has always been fascinating to her. Perhaps it was because her life had been atypical from almost the beginning; perhaps because the times she had fit into any large group were few, and thus she never tired of observing how easily others fit in. Maybe it was simple curiosity. Whatever the reason, she never tired of disappearing into a crowd to study the lives of others.

But there is a difference now, some disquiet within her that comes to the forefront of her consciousness when she finds herself in a crowd. It's complicated and strange, not quite sorrow and not quite peace: a steady unease -- as if she's forgotten something important -- mixed with joyful abandon, like jumping into cold water on a scorching hot day.

So when she finds herself once again in the crowd of the Exchange, it doesn't surprise her in the least to want to both weep and laugh. This is a typical day in a string of typical days. Nothing particularly of note is afoot. There are more races than she can easily identify moving about the market - although she can spot Andorians and Orions in great concentrations -- there are also people with lavender skin and three blue eyes, and those that walk on four legs rather than two, and people covered with rippling fur the colors of fractured light.

There aren't many humans, or even any that look human. She hasn't strayed so far into the throng that she can't still see Book haggling over some deal at the far edge of the crowd; she recognizes from the tilt of his head that he's annoyed and trying not to show it. Book has twelve degrees of annoyed, but he's still in the lower levels right now. Her eyes wander away from him. She has already fulfilled her contract and obtained the next; these few minutes belong to her.

What is she seeking in this crowd? Is it what she's always sought? Understanding, appreciation, acceptance? The unending desire to find common ground with those unlike herself. Or perhaps she is simply looking for kinship and a trace of community in a place so very far from her own.

Few are on their own here. There are pairs and trios all the way up to small groups. The emotions on display are almost as vast as the individuals displaying them: anger, amusement, fear, confidence. There are living creatures everywhere here, a mini galaxy held together by walls and intention, barely space to move about and conduct the business of the living.

Michael watches all of it.

She is very alone.

V.

With a sharp breath and hands fisted in the blankets, Michael sits up with a start. Her throat is sore, her mouth is dry, her face wet. Around her racing heart, she feels the grip of fear - she was supposed to do something, and either forgot or else simply did it wrong. The consequences for this unknown failure are severe, although unfathomable.

This is not the first time this has happened.

She brings her breathing back to a controlled rate, makes her fists relax and brushes the tears from her face. Meditation techniques force the obscure anxieties from her mind, but cannot dispel the vague sadness that remains.

Yesterday marked the anniversary of her arrival in this time. Ten months. Logic says she should have had many nightmares the previous evening, not last night. Too bad somewhere along the way she misplaced her absolute faith in logic. Perhaps she left it in the wormhole, or else in her quarters on Discovery.

Something akin to despair washes over her yet again, accompanied by a longing so fierce it makes her ache.

What does it mean to exist completely apart from where you belong?

She's lived in isolation many times. Far too many times, in all honesty, and what but honesty does she really have left, anyway. She knows what it is to live as a child among a race not her own. She knows what it is to live as an adult among people who don't identify her as one of _their_ own. What it is to exist among the hopeless convicted, what it is to survive against the odds with a ship full of scientists drafted into a war of her making. She even knows what it is to live in a universe not her own.

But this -- this life that she has now - she doesn't know how...

She discovered a long time ago that hope is hard. It's expensive. And now she also wonders if it's worth it. The Michael who lives in this time is certainly not the idealistic Michael she used to be. The Michael who lives now is completely on her own. She doesn't have an adopted family on a desert planet to support her; she doesn't have a crew to bolster her morale. All the ways she defines herself now are based on things she used to be.

Continuing on in this state is unsustainable. It doesn't take a genius to know that if she doesn't find solid ground soon, she's going to drown. Every hour of every day of every week of every month for the past ten months she's hoped to find some sign of Discovery. The bright, bright flames of Tilly's hair are fading from her eyes. The weight of Seru's gaze is fading from her shoulders. The sharp zing of Spock's words, the way Ash's hands touched her face...

There are people and places she will always love. That won't ever change. But this hope for yesterday -

Michael takes a deep breath, then stands to face the coming day.

VI.

It happens quite by accident one night, one of the nights when she's been in this time long enough to have stopped counting each passing night, on a night when she and Book have been partners long enough to have established a mishmash sort of routine.

They are playing a game, one of strategy and misdirection, somewhat like chess and yet not so alike that the differences are easily overlooked. The board is larger, the pieces fewer, the rolls less rigid. As in life, improvisation is as critical as intelligence. (Sarek might not approve, but Spock would adore it. If Spock ever could acknowledge adoring anything.)

Book has executed a series of plays designed to box her primary pieces into a corner, but she saw his plan long before. Now she executes her response, takes two of his pieces and leaves Book tossing up his hands. "You can't do that!"

"You mean, you can't," Michael corrects, grinning. "I can do many things, Ash."

The taste of his name immediately sobers her.

"What does that mean?" Book laughs. "You can do many things with ash? You think you can win, then. Reduce my team to ruble."

How exactly is she to explain this, and is it even worth trying. Does she herself even know what she would try to explain.

There were hours and hours spent in Ash's company; some of those hours were spent playing chess. When she'd had her set shipped to Discovery, Tilly had insisted that they play game after game, then extolled the virtues of her set to all who cared to listen and sometimes those who didn't. Ash had seized the information and used it like a piece of classified intelligence to seduce Michael into playing against him. Although he hadn't been as formidable an opponent as Sarek or Captain Georgio or even Tilly, Ash had still been no easy victory. Particularly appealing was his grace in losing, his continued genuine surprise at her victories time after time.

"Oh, so you _can_ gloat," Ash had teased once after she'd managed a tricky play which won her the match.

"I can do many things, Ash," she'd returned, momentarily bold. The sudden tilt to his head, the wicked charm of his smile, had made her wonder if he knew she had won the match, but he was winning the game.

"I bet you can," he'd returned, voice heavy with suggestion. "Want to try again?"

Why had her subconscious brought this out now? Book wasn't at all like Ash; there was no confusing the two of them.

Well, they did share some character traits. Intelligence, independence, fierce competitiveness...

(She'd wondered, later, after Ash had left Discovery to return to Q'onos, if his competitive nature - his profound drive to win - had been the human or Klingon part of him. Never asking, Ash himself had commented on it a far time later, between bouts of sphere data and red angel speculations.

"It's something both Ash and Voq actually had in common," he'd said wryly, not quite smiling, "that will to win." Then his eyes had shifted to her, and the smile turned true. "That, and their undeniable attraction to smart, brave women."

At the time, Michael had made herself smile, even while she thought, _Like L’rell._

At some point later, when it was too late, she'd realized, _Like me._ )

"And you have the audacity to smile about it," Book laughs, mocking her as only a friend can.

Book isn't Ash, he's himself, but it isn't at all unfortunate to be able to think of Ash and smile.

Book shakes his head. "Fine. I see how it is. Let me have a chance to get some of my own back. Let's try again."

Ash's laugh echoes from yesterday's corridors.

VII.

Michael sat on the roof of their house, looking out at the desert sands. Her white graduation colors were strewn across her bed, abandoned for her favorite, mostly threadbare tunic and trousers. How often had she done just as she was doing now - faced down some disappointment by seeking the comfort and familiar?

She'd hated the desert when Sarek first brought her here. Not so now, nor had it been so for a long while: the sands, hot and sharp, steady but true. Constant and enduring. Beautiful, for what they were, always had been, always would be.

She had exactly zero idea what would happen when tonight ended. The tomorrow she had so eagerly anticipated was no more. Perhaps it never had been, despite her heartfelt efforts and desire. Perhaps it had only ever been mirage.

There was a scrambling behind her, the sounds of someone moving to be near, sit beside her.

"Their decision to reject you was unjust," Spock said by way of greeting. "They should not have rejected you for your race, but for your genuine shortcomings."

"Thank you," she replied to the mixed statement.

"I am sincere," Spock insisted. "You are more than qualified to fail on your own terms."

Michael arched an eyebrow. Ladies and gentlemen, her little brother.

There was silence between them for a while, not strained, simply calm.

Spock eventually said, "What will you do now, as the future you had foreseen is no longer open to you?"

What indeed.

When she failed to respond, Spock insisted, "Michael, what are you going to do?"

\--------

Out where the rivers like to run, I stand alone,  
And take back something worth remembering.

~ Three Dog Night, from _Out in the Country_

[end]


End file.
